221 B
by poetanddidntknowit34
Summary: My final poject for creative writting class. 21 drabbles in the 221 B format (221 words, the final word and title ending in "B").
1. Burn

_"I will burn the __heart__ out of you."_  
Sherlock shot up from sleep and almost fell off the couch. He was breathing hard and shaking a little as the threatening words of Jim Moriarty echoed inside his head. He rubbed his temples furiously and tried to get the sentence out of his head. Tired to convince himself that he was too fast, too clever, for Moriarty to ever be able to get to him. But the truth was, he was scared. The threat had rocked him to the core, especially since it had been delivered while John had a bomb strapped to his chest. Moriarty, the Consulting Criminal, would do anything to get his way. And that included burning any part of Sherlock's body he wanted too. Even his heart.  
A stifled sob came out as a choke. "You OK?" John asked from his chair by the fire. He'd been watching Sherlock ever since he'd jolted awake.  
"Yes. Fine. Just a bad dream." Sherlock shook his dark curls in an attempt to clear his mind.  
"But you don't get bad dreams." John moved over to the couch. "Do you want to talk about it?"  
"I just can't stop thinking about what Moriarty said." Sherlock admitted.  
John put an arm around his friend, "Sherlock, as long as I'm here, nothing will burn."


	2. Built

John Watson was sitting in his favorite chair by the fire, a book in his hands and the quiet hum of his flat mate in the background. Sherlock was in his normal place at the kitchen table, humming a song that normally graced his violin as he looked at slide after slide under the magnification. John dog-eared his place in his novel and looked up. "You know, this book is really good. It's an adventure novel. Takes place in a castle."  
Sherlock gave a small, noncommittal grunt to show he was half-listening. John tried again. "I always thought it'd be nice to live in a castle."  
Now Sherlock looked up. "Why would you want to do that? Castles are dark, moldy, and just plain old-fashioned. Plus, there's an almost guarantee of a draft. No insulation. Air just comes and goes freely, leaving a chill."  
John rolled his eyes. "Don't be a stick in the mud. I was only making conversation."  
"And I was responding to the conversation." Sherlock glued his eyes back onto the microscope. "If you don't like it here, why don't you move to your castle?"  
"I never said I didn't like it here." John stood and put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, causing him to look up. "Sherlock, there's no better home than the one that we've built."


	3. B

Gun shots were going off in the flat of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, and the trained assassin that had attacked hadn't expected them to fight back so well and was firing his weapon in a panic. The flat mates were hiding out behind the sofa, avoiding the stray bullets that were lodging themselves into the wall above their heads. John had his pistol gripped tightly in his hand and was occasionally popping out around the sofa to take an aimed shot at the assassin. "Sherlock! What are we going to do? I think he's got us cornered."  
Sherlock just straightened his blue silk robe and pulled out his cell phone. "Mrs. Hudson? Code yellow!" He snapped the phone shut. "We should have an opportunity in a second."  
Before John could ask what that was about, Mrs. Hudson's voice came from the doorway, "HEY YOU!"  
Sherlock spun out from behind the couch and John looked over the top to see him grab the gunman, who had been surprised and distracted by Mrs. Hudson, and slam him out the window. The assassin was unconscious, and Sherlock just brushed himself off and said, "I'm going back to bed."  
"Me too," John sighed. And he stumbled back into his room, unfazed by the morning events; it was just another typical day at 221 B


	4. Bruises

Sherlock woke up to the sound of coughing coming from John's bedroom. When he poked his head inside, he saw John lying on his bed, coughing violently. "Sher?" John said between coughs. "I'm sick. Can you bring me the tissue box?"  
Sherlock brought the tissues in and watched as John coughed harshly into one, then shiver. "Are you cold?" Sherlock asked, pulling the blankets up higher.  
"Thanks." John mumbled. "Can I have some tea?"  
Sherlock nodded and went out to put the kettle on. He hated it when John was sick. While waiting for the water to boil, Sherlock went back in. John was still coughing, his sandy blond hair drenched in sweat from the effort. Sherlock frowned at the state his friend was in, and pulled a few more tissues from the box. John took them with shaky fingers and fell back against the bed. After a few short, wheezy breaths, John began to cough again. "I really hate this cough. It's so violent, I think I'm going to damage a lung." He whispered weakly.  
"Hang on." Sherlock went out, and brought back in two cups of tea and his favorite blue scarf. He crawled into the bed and draped the scarf around their shoulders. "That should fix it."  
"How?"  
Sherlock said very simply, "John, the scarf heals all bruises."


	5. Bench

John shivered against the cold and pulled his jacket tighter around him. It was the middle of December, and Sherlock had threatened to keep him up all night if he didn't go on a walk him through the park. Mostly, the stroll was just to clear the detective's over-crowded, high functioning mind, and to get a bit of cold, fresh air. According to Sherlock, cold air is good for the body and mind. John felt that cold air was only good for catching the flu. "Sherlock, are we done yet?" He whined, shivering again.  
"Do I look relaxed yet, John?" He said calmly.  
John sighed. "I can never tell whether or not you're relaxed."  
"Well, I'm not." Sherlock said, sitting down on a green wooden bench near the center of the park.  
John sat down next to him and blew on his fingers, which were a lovely shade of red by that point. "It's freezing out, though." As if to prove his point, white flecks began to fall from above. The crystalline dancers landed on the pair in a silent aria, and the wind rustled around their feet.  
Neither of them moved; they just watched the snowflakes. Sherlock draped his blue scarf around John, and, as the white puffs continued to fall, the two sat, side-by-side, on the little wooden bench.


	6. Backdrop

"I'm pretty sure we're not allowed to do this." John said quietly.  
"What makes you say that?" Sherlock laughed a little.  
"I think it was that sign back there that said 'No Admittance'." John looked back down the steep stairs to where they'd come in. "We're guests in this country, so I don't think they'd like it if they found out we are breaking rules. Plus, we don't have the same 'in' with the American police force that we do with the British."  
Sherlock just waved a hand nonchalantly. "Details, details." He continued to scale the staircase until he burst out into the bell tower of the church.  
"What are we even doing up here, Sherlock?"  
"On one of the greatest American holidays, we cracked one of the biggest cases in history. I thought we'd join in the festivities of the holiday, and we deserved a good seat." He smiled big, and a large red firework exploded in the night sky behind him.  
He pulled John over and the two sat down on the edge of the tower, their feet dangling out through the brick arch and the giant brass bell behind them. "Perfect seats." John smiled big, looking out to the sky where fireworks exploded in a vivid display of colors and hues against a dark blue, star studded backdrop.


	7. Be

John was stressing out. He was pacing the flat like a lion in a cage while Sherlock was watching him closely from the couch. "Why me? Why did I have to be the one?" John said. Occasionally he glanced out the window, nervousness etching wrinkles in his forehead.  
"Because you're the retired military soldier; nerves of steel."  
"I was a doctor!" John blurted. "Technically, not a soldier."  
"Well, you're in it now. And I can't do it without you." Sherlock was surprisingly calm for someone who was asking his best friend to bury him alive.  
"You sure you can't solve the case without this?" John didn't want something to go wrong.  
"No. The victim was buried alive and able to escape before being shot. So, somehow, the murderer saw her crawling up. I need to simulate what he saw. Therefore, I need to study how the dirt moves when someone climbs out. So I need you to bury me in the backyard." Sherlock crossed his arms. "I don't know why you're nervous. I'm the one being buried."  
"I just don't want to kill you. Also, I'm worried because you think this is going to be fun. Why can't you just be happy to exist? Like everyone else."  
"Because, John, life isn't worth living if the only goal is simply to 'be'."


	8. Bland

"No! No! No!" Sherlock yelled at the television. "He is not the culprit, she is! Stop looking at her like that and arrest her!"  
"My bad choice prevails…" John mumbled. "Getting you into teley was just a plain bad idea."  
Sherlock shrugged. "It's better than firing bullets into the wall. You said so yourself."  
"That I did, but I didn't think you'd spend your time watching detective shows." John stood up from the kitchen table and joined him in front of the TV. "I thought you'd maybe watch reality shows. Or something to help your social skills improve."  
Sherlock pulled his knees up to his chest. "I don't like reality TV. Doesn't require any thinking."  
John agreed. "So why is she the murderer, and not their suspect?"  
"Watch the way she talks to the police men. Her eyes keep dragging occasionally over to the police car and the hand cuffs on the cop's belt. Doesn't take much brain power to figure it out." Sherlock said condescendingly.  
"Well sorry, Mister Know It All. We can't all be the world's only consulting detective. You know, if you were to show your intelligence in a nicer way, people would listen to you more."  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I know that. But it's hard to be nice when other people's stupidity makes the world bland."


	9. Breathe

"I blame you." John hissed into the darkness.  
"This is not my fault." Sherlock whispered back.  
"You were the one who suggested this 'vacation'. The current situation is your fault." John elbowed Sherlock in the side.  
"Please leave my rib cage alone. It didn't do anything." Sherlock said sourly.  
John was about to retort, but a loud snore escaped from the large stranger on the bed opposite them. The two froze and listened, willing the stranger not to wake up. When it didn't seem like he would, they relaxed.  
A situation at the hotel had put them in this predicament. They had requested a room with two beds; one for each of them, but the burly stranger in the second bed had had a mix-up with his registration and had invited himself to stay in their room. The man was so large and angry, neither one had had the guts to protest. So now, it was 1 AM, and the two friends were laying side-by-side in the queen bed, unable to fall asleep. Partly from fear that the stranger would kill them in their dreams, and partly from the awkward sleeping arrangements. "We should go to sleep." Sherlock whispered.  
"Yeah." John agreed.  
But still, sleep eluded both. They just lay awake, staring at the ceiling, and listening to each other breathe.


	10. Broken

John was holding a vase tightly to his chest, a forlorn look creasing his brow and slender fingers occasionally stroking the painted clay. He stared straight ahead at the empty fireplace, and occasionally let a tear roll down his face. When Sherlock came home to find his friend in this state, he sat down on the couch and said, "You ok? Do you want to talk about it?"  
"My grandmother passed away. I just found out about it. And she left me this vase." John sniffed.  
"Why a vase?"  
John smiled sadly. "When I was little, I used to stare at it all the time. I thought it was pretty." He shook his head and stood up. "But now it means more because—" He was cut off by the snagging of his foot on the coffee table. The vase flew out of his arms and landed on the hardwood floor, shattering into big chunks. "Oh no." He whined, and the tears flowed freer.  
Sherlock walked over, picked up the pieces of the vase, and steered John over to the table. He pulled out a bottle of super glue, sat down next to John, and together, they glued the vase back together. "See John? Vases are like people. The secret is knowing where the pieces go; then it's no longer broken."


	11. Bravery

Sherlock put his head in his hands and rubbed his temples furiously. The case had not turned out the way he wanted it to, and it was getting stressful. Sure, he'd solved the mystery. Sure, he'd figured out the murderer faster than Lestrade or Anderson ever could. But still… His first guess had been wrong.  
"You have to let this go, Sherlock." John said from the kitchen. "You can't keep beating yourself up over it. So you were wrong the first time around. What's the big deal?"  
"What's the big deal?" Sherlock snapped his head up and narrowed his eyes at his companion. "The big deal is that I'm not wrong. I am never wrong. That's the big deal."  
John rolled his eyes and joined Sherlock on the couch. "But it's not. You have to realize that being wrong doesn't make you less fantastic! You're the world's only consulting detective! A genius! The only of his kind. Being wrong once doesn't change that."  
"But my intellect is who I am. All my feelings. It's my happiness, my sadness, and my bravery. I just hate that I was… I was…"  
"Say it." John encouraged.  
"I was wrong!" Sherlock put his head in his hands again.  
John put a comforting hand on his friend's back. "Admitting you were wrong: now that's real bravery."


	12. Bound

"Ignore me, Lestrade." Sherlock said quickly. When Lestrade began to protest, Sherlock jumped in and said, "It's just the shock talking." He started to walk away.  
"But I still have questions!" Lestrade grabbed him.  
"Oh what now? I'm in shock. Look, I have a blanket." Sherlock gestured to the hunters orange shock blanket wrapped around his shoulders, then left Lestrade alone to deal with his dead serial killer. He walked over to John and smiled at him. "Thanks."  
John shrugged. "I put a bullet in a serial killer to stop you from taking a pill that could potentially kill you… I think you would've done the same for me."  
The friends began giggling as they started off down the sidewalk in the direction of 221 B Baker Street. It had been a most interesting start to their friendship: murders cropping up around London, the killer kidnapping Sherlock, and John shooting the murderer through two panes of glass in order to save a man he'd just met. Yet, in spite of the danger they'd just endured, the two were strolling casually down the road, laughing at a joke. The night was cold, so Sherlock threw his favorite blue scarf around the shoulders of his new friend.  
With the recent events, and the cotton scarf around their shoulders, the two were indefinitely bound.


	13. Bad

"Now what, Sherlock?" John asked as they watched the murderer run away. "We may know who it is, but we just lost an opportune moment to arrest him." He held a stitch in his side. They had chased the criminal all through London, and up onto the roof of a building, where the criminal made a fatal jump to the street, survived by pure luck, and was now tearing off in the direction of the subway system. "If he gets on the subway, we may never catch him."  
"Don't fret, John. I always get my man. He won't get away." Sherlock pulled a small device out of his pocket. It was a black plastic square, with a large red button on the top and a glittering warning light on the top. The light was slowly flashing on and off, a living pulse of red.  
Suddenly, John realized what it was. "Is that a—"  
Sherlock pressed the button and a car nearby where the criminal was running exploded in a mushroom cloud of fire and surprise. The criminal, burned but alive, fell to the street. "He's not going anywhere for a bit." Sherlock said with a smile.  
"You just blew up a car!" John exclaimed.  
Sherlock turned up the collar on his coat. "To quote Mr. Jackson, 'you know I'm bad'."


	14. Balance

"Come on, John!" Sherlock yelled, running full force across the roof of the building and dodging the bullets of the guilty man chasing them.  
"Slow down, Sher!" John was stumbling a little, his leg still bruised from the box that had fallen on him back inside the warehouse.  
"No! You go faster!" Sherlock skidded to a stop at the edge of the building. He thought for a second, before swinging a large board over the gap between the buildings. It was a crude bridge, but would have to do. He stepped gingerly out onto the plank and, after finding it sturdy, skittered across with ease.  
John paused when he reached the board, heights weren't his thing. "I can't do this!"  
Sherlock just said, "Yes you can. Just focus on me."  
John stepped out over the chasm and began to creep slowly across, keeping his mind focused on Sherlock, ignoring the expanse below and the bullets behind. It was going well, until he reached the end.  
Only a few paces from the safety of the other building, John lost his footing and began to fall to the street below. He opened his mouth to scream, but slender fingers caught his wrist, pulling him to safety. "Thanks." John gasped.  
Sherlock just straightened John's coat. "I promise, I'll never let you lose your balance."


	15. Borrowed

"Sherlock! Why is my laptop destroyed on the kitchen table?!" John asked, storming into his flat mate's bedroom in an angry huff. He planted his hand on his hips and waited for his answer, which he knew wouldn't be one he'd want to hear.  
"It's not destroyed. It's just dismantled." Sherlock said very matter-of-factly.  
"WHY?" John threw his hands up in frustration. "That costs money!"  
"I was doing an experiment." His tone of voice suggested it was a stupid question, and John should've already known the answer. John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "I sense that you're frustrated."  
"No, Sherlock. I enjoy you destroying my property in the name of experiments. Would you like to take apart my cell phone next? Or maybe just wait until I'm older than dirt, then 'dismantle' my oxygen tank?"  
"Of course not. I've already taken apart your cell phone, and oxygen tanks are so simple, I could make one with the remains of your laptop." Sherlock stood up from his bed and towered over John. "Calm down. I can put it back together. And I will."  
"But that's not the point!"  
"What is the point, then?"  
"I don't like the fact that you keep stealing my stuff."  
"I did not steal it, John. Science required it, so it was borrowed."


	16. Bored

John was sitting in his room when he heard the 'bang' of a gun shot from the living room. He paused for a second and listened. Another shot rang out. John rolled his eyes and set his laptop aside. He walked out to see Sherlock lounging in one of the chairs near the fireplace; firing off round after round into the spray painted smiley face on the wall opposite him. "You know," John said, "You could be like a normal person and read a book or play a game when you're bored."  
"Books and board games don't make loud noises." Sherlock said simply. "The gun shots provide the small illusion of danger. Gets my blood flowing."  
John laughed a little. "Well, how do you think poor George feels about your boredom?"  
Sherlock looked at him confusedly, "George?"  
"I named the wall smiley. I just felt that, since it suffers so much abuse at your hands, it at least needed a name." John walked over and inspected the bullet holes in the wall. "You know, I like this wallpaper. I don't see why you insist on destroying it."  
"Boredom, John." Sherlock sighed and slid off the chair. Lying on the floor, he stared blankly at the ceiling.  
John shook his head. "Nothing's worse for poor George and me than when you're bored."


	17. Bromance

They had been locked on each other for almost twenty minutes before John finally tore his eyes off Sherlock and focused them back on the chess board. His scare-tactic stare down hadn't quite worked, and he was back to fixing his cornered king problem with his mind. Or maybe he could just rage quit and flip the chess board. It was going to be the third time in a row that Sherlock had beaten him within the first few moves, and John was getting angry. It wasn't fair that Sherlock was using his superior intellect to win every single time. John just knocked down his king in surrender. "I give up."  
Sherlock smiled triumphantly. "Success again." John stood up and sighed loudly. He crossed his arms and stared huffily out the window, he hated always losing to Sherlock in any game of wits. Chess, Sudoku, even Risk. Sherlock was an unstoppable master of the upper level thinking games. John glared out the window, feeling half angry at his lack of ability to win a game, and half silly at his childish behavior. But before he could turn around to propose a rematch, he felt the soft cotton of Sherlock's favorite blue scarf around his neck and a warm cup of tea in his hand. "I hope this doesn't ruin our Bromance."


	18. Believe

Sherlock Holmes put his head in his hands and sighed loudly. Jim Moriarty was attacking from all sides, and it was getting harder to find a way out. Sherlock was losing track of who he was and slowly losing faith in himself.  
John put an arm around his friend and said, "Don't let this get to you. I know you, and I know you'll figure this out."  
"I've never been up against something like this before, though." Sherlock coughed to hide the emotional crack in his voice. "Everyone is turning against me. And it's all Jim's fault. I know it. He's turning the whole city against me, and trying to write me off as a murderer!"  
"Sherlock, calm down." John said soothingly. "You can beat this. You just can't let him win."  
"That's easy for you to say. He's not trying to ruin everything you are." Sherlock whispered to the floor. "John, I feel—I feel like, lately, I'm a breathing, talking… dead man walking. Like I'm just a ghost of who I used to be."  
"Don't say that, Sherlock. I still believe in you. And so do a lot of other people."  
"But why? Moriarty has painted me as the bad guy, so why would anyone still believe in Sherlock Holmes?"  
John shrugged. "Sometimes, people just need something to believe."


	19. Better

Sherlock looked up from his morning newspaper to see John staring at him over his bowl of cereal. "What?" He asked.  
John shrugged and went back to his cereal. "Nothing. It was nothing."  
"One does not simply stare at someone without a reason. Your irises were darker, implying deep thought, but your pupils were focused, implying that were you weren't just spacing out, you were thinking about me." Sherlock deduced with ease. He always said, 'it is not hard to read people once you know the right language'.  
John rolled his eyes. "Typically, when someone says 'nothing', they don't want to talk about it."  
"I know. But it involved me, so I'm going to make you say it anyway." Sherlock folded his paper and stared at John until the man gave in and, with a sigh, told him.  
"I was just thinking about my life before I met you."  
"Ah. Boring, right? I would assume so." John glared at him. Sherlock just shrugged. "You have to admit, anything other than murder cases and crazed criminals is boring."  
John nodded. "True, but still. My life wasn't completely boring. But it was a lot different. Point is, I'm grateful I met you. You were just what I needed."  
"Oh? And how so?"  
"Before you, I was lonely and sick. You made me better."


	20. Back

Sherlock stood on the pavement outside 221 B Baker Street watching a lone light shimmer up in the flat; John had waited up for him again. Sherlock turned the key in the lock and went upstairs to the living room where John was dozing in a chair near the fire place. His book had fallen to the floor and lay open in a random spot, and a cup of tea rested on the side table. The fire was dwindling to glowing embers and the mirror above the mantle reflected back the wan face of a man who had been out all night; cases never were day specific.  
Sherlock peeled off his coat, threw it over a kitchen chair, and went for the refrigerator. As always, there was no milk. With a sigh, he shut the fridge and walked over to where John was. He touched the man's shoulder and John opened his eyes dreamily. "Go to bed." Sherlock whispered.  
John sat up and rubbed his eyes. "What time is it?"  
"Around two in the morning." Sherlock said, picking up the book from the floor.  
"Wow. You were out late." John stretched.  
Sherlock pulled off his scarf. "You didn't have to wait up for me."  
John blinked and said matter-of-factly, "I will always be here, Sherlock, waiting for you to come back."


	21. Blue

"Give it back, John." Sherlock said threateningly.  
"Nope." John smiled slyly across the cab at his friend and only gripped the stolen item tighter. "It took a lot of effort to get it, and I'm keeping it for now." He smiled bigger and looked out the window, whistling to himself.  
The cab dropped them off on the street near the crime scene, and Sherlock strode huffily across the pavement to the police tape. John followed close behind, a spring in his step and a large smile still on his face. When they ducked under the police tape, it didn't take long for Lestrade to locate them. Shaking their hands, he said, "Looks like another homicide boys." Seeing the look on Sherlock's face, he added, "And that's not something to be happy about." Sherlock frowned again. Lestrade gave John a questioning look then said, "John, did you manage to steal Sherlock's scarf?"  
John beamed again. "Yes. Yes I did." He twirled the cotton blue scarf around his neck, and gave Sherlock a mischievous look. "It took some effort. He keeps it under some close supervision. I'll detail it later, if you want."  
"Nice job." Lestrade nodded approvingly and gestured for the sleuths to follow him.  
Before following, Sherlock turned to John and said, "You look good, but I look better in blue."


End file.
